December 11, 2012   1 note

I can’t write anymore

I lost him, and now all of the words I’ve ever written are empty and lifeless. Creation is bland. This tumblr is dead.
I lost him, and the rest of it won’t matter for a long, long time.

October 5, 2012   4 notes

My Democracy.

note: I wrote this in class one day after becoming flustered with constantly hearing about presidential candidates speak on abortion and contraception. this is my way of trying to explain that they can’t… they simply can not. how can you make decisions about bodies that you do not, will not, and can not ever understand? 
we, as women, are so far past days where our bodies were not allowed a choice. please, whether you’re pro-choice or not, understand the power we are giving up if we allow this to happen. say something, get informed, go vote. 


all these politicians, all these politicians-
but who touches me?
who smooths the democracy that is me and my life, my strife
no one has ever caressed my mind and took the time to-

stop jibber-jabbing, proving, pleading, 
par-taking in such typical tones

and fall in to me, my democracy, and held my worries and whispered heavily
truth, reality, proof 

no one has grasped my stomach, felt the thin shield of skin cell atop of my secret spots and thought,
'this is where it will lay, how does it feel to pay to erase?'

no one has climbed inside of my insides, watched the mistakes take place, felt time quicken pace and doubled my sole population’s face 

no one has absorbed the panic, shivered at the manic-ness that follows 

no one has stroked my chest as my breast pains with the relief of a hormone filled train travelling though me and my reign 

all these politicians, all these politicians, 

but who touches me?
who makes love with me, and my democracy?
who encloses my body, and my surrounding sounds of both sanity and struggle?
and who speaks the speeches of my troubled temple?

once they are left with rapid races and foreign fluid intruding an entire entity- once they understand orgasmic hate and disgrace-
then, only then,

the politicians will have becomes one with me-
a part of my democracy.  

July 1, 2012   3 notes
10 months…

10 months…

June 4, 2012   1 note

close parenthesis.

(so much goes on between the lines. lately, the lines have been labelled. angst. confusion. words that i have become so very addicted to, that have become a necessity, they betray me. they do not suffice- they are not up to par- they are weak. they feel like dissolving paper on my tongue.
no. that is not correct. they are not physically fading paper. they are the germs in the cough spraying out of my throat, out of my lips. spreading all over every thing i can see…over every thing i can not see.
how does one “know” something? how does one have such a sense of security that they don’t feel as if they are deceiving when they speak? because realistically, i don’t know anything. i don’t know what color red really is, i can’t describe red. it’s light and dark and has been labelled with a word that i can not describe. i guess my only sense of security has deceived me, too. my words will never create a real understanding. emotion- yes. understanding- never.
i want to decode what happens between the lines. i want to write about hesitation, about the things that no one has ever really been able to describe. i want to write about the dirty thoughts the man with the perfect wife thinks when he sees elderly women. i want to write about the over achiever and her second personality, the one that craves anything illegal, the one that she’s been having trouble containing. i want to write the deepest thoughts of the quiet ones, the dreams that people think no one will ever believe. the secrets. true knowledge.  because in a sense, isn’t that what knowledge really is? something that one has experienced and not shared, something that one is ashamed of. shame is what is true. if you are ashamed of anything, then that anything is real. real because you are so sure of it that it’s frightening. so real that it must be jammed and glued between the lines. hidden. to hide is to know. to hide is to know.)

to hide is to know-

(oops. i shared. to share is to create skepticism. to hide- is to know.)

April 21, 2012   4 notes

the Middle.

i’m pushing and i’m pulling as hard as i possibly can with force unlike anything i have ever felt my grip is so tight that my fingers are whitening and maybe maybe if i keep typing on here i will reach a point of understanding a point of conclusion a point of relief a point of energy a diminishing exhaustion clarity clarity where the fuck is the clarity ‘cause i’ve been writing and hoping and expressing and hoping and putting together this puzzle piece and HOPING and using all of the brain power i have to speak words to give you light to give you clarity clarity clarity but its all repetition and its all miserable and i don’t know how much more i can bandage im running so low but im still running
how am i still running?
i just wish that something would fall would drop would make me comprehend a lesson behind all of this pain his pain and my pain and our great pain that falls upon him every single day is it wrong to be happy here is it wrong to love from there is it wrong is it right to struggle is it right to wonder is it right to think deep dark penetrating thoughts it is all so hard sometimes it is so difficult so complex and i can’t save this one and i can not doctor this one and i can not do a damn thing because without the physical i am not enough but it isn’t my fault i didn’t choose this i didn’t pick this one out i didn’t change this i didn’t i PROMISE i didn’t but i am responsible and i am suffering and struggling and pushing and still hoping and holding by the very tip of my fingertips but i’m still holding
how am i still holding?
sometimes when we’re together really together inseparable together as one together i wonder very heavily if you feel the salt run down my cheeks salt that is full of joy as i am full of you it’s as if we’re fighting for something fighting to reach something grabbing at one anothers bones as hard with as much strength as we can reaching for something as we reach for each other shaking one another hurting one another making sure the other is real as we’re against one another how do we fulfill the way we fulfill how is that eye contact that struggle that sex as overwhelming as it is and is it worth the misery your misery maybe the reason why we create such over bearing over whelming time consuming love is because our bodies speak what i can not say they say it gets so hard sometimes and i just want to unmeet you but i need you i need you so badly that you have to be inside me as bare as we possibly can be as often as possible its a necessity not a desire it’s water it’s air and the thought of it makes me stare at our pictures but my eyes are so worn that they droop they are open they are fluttering but they are open
how are they still open?
i’m typing and pounding at these keys never finishing a single thought throwing cryptic messages out the window throwing form out that same window throwing poetry out of that window i am THROWING it out i do not want it right now this is not about art this is about searching this is about feeling this is about love being by far the most painful brilliant emotion that one could feel this is about clarity this is about endings this is about beginnings this is about the ever so rich and essential middles the middle of your pain the middle of your pain holding my pain the middle of self worth the middle of our worth the middle of distance the middle of memory the middle of peaking the middle of beating and pounding the middle of sadness the middle of happiness the middle of fucking puzzles the middle of god damn INFINITE the middle of static through the phone the middle of words on a screen the middle of blue eyes staring the middle of this keyboard the middle of all of these words the middle of one year the middle of searching the middle of openings the middle of holding the middle of running the middle of gasping and weaving the middle of slowing down steps the middle of jogging the middle of walking the middle of legs giving out the middle of collapsing the middle of sitting somewhere and nowhere with hands over my face and a racing heart beat and long, deep, meaningful, full breaths.

April 2, 2012   10 notes


I am City and I am Island and I am Suburb, all in one.

The world is obsessed with labels and
My family doesn’t see my pride. I can’t cook Puerto Rican, my Spanish is broken, my curls are hidden, my hips don’t protrude as much as they should, I don’t Salsa correctly, I’m not familiar enough with my history, La Isla is foreign to me. I’ve lost my culture, the swift and strong aura that every Boricua woman needs, my Brown fades in the cold, they think I’ve lost it.

The world is obsessed with labels and
My Bronx friends claim I am not hood enough. I don’t wear the same clothes as I used to, I keep my hair down and straight, I don’t have the thick accent full of Nuyorican slang that I once had. I’ve lost my edge, the intimidation every Bronx girl carries, I’m too soft in the way I speak, they think I’ve lost it.

The world is obsessed with labels and
My suburban friends think I’m over-urbanized. They don’t understand the blunt way in which I address the world, my confrontations are too hard, my curves are shocking, the way I dance is too sensual. My music choice is foul, my voice is too loud, my sentences too harsh. I’ve lost my politeness, the lightness in which my feet hit the ground, I stick out in their majority, they think I’ve lost it.

I am not my stereotypes.

The island runs through my blood, rich & thick, and Puerto Rico is a lifestyle
whether location alters or not.
New York City is mine, and it has taught me survival skills that force my reflexes, and the Bronx borough is an attitude
whether location alters or not.
Westchester’s wealth has refined me, and Hastings’ quiet & observant way of living is engraved in me
whether location alters or not.

Let me make this clear: I haven’t lost a damn thing.

Sometimes my hair is curly, most times it’s straight. Sneakers aren’t important to me but speaking up for myself is. I’m a good listener, quiet when necessary- key term: when necessary. I prefer empenadas over burgers and I don’t speak Spanish- but I’m fluent in Spanglish. I miss the sound of the subway, but I adore the sounds of birds chirping sprinkled on silence. I dance when I hear a rhythm I like, whether it be Salsa or Hip-Hop or acoustic duets. I always express myself when angry. My English is very wordy, and my Nuyorican slang is intellectually placed throughout my language. The city is my home, but the suburbs comfort me. Puerto Rico’s waters are a distance memory, but I keep it close to my heart.

I write this not expecting society to comprehend me. I write this expecting society to accept me, my beautiful variety, my melting pot of identity. Location does not define me- I have always created my own definition.
I sculpt myself. From experience, from preferences, from love.
I sculpt myself from the many homes that I have been fortunate enough to collect throughout these young, hopeful, blessed years of my wonderful life.

March 25, 2012   6 notes


i first met tifani in an acting class in my local community center in the bronx when i was only 6 years old. at the time, neither of our families had too much money- but what they did have was a knowledge that tiff and i had a need to express ourselves. our mother’s were very similar in the way that they insisted on us taking classes, even if it was just at the center. and although during our first big production tiff had a few years on me, the depth of the script that our late acting teacher and father figure Carlos Laboy had come up with forced us to connect in a way that has lasted from then until now. acting does that to people, you know? i remember being under that seemingly huge spotlight in the half of the room that we called our stage, sitting on a bench with tifani, having to fake tears and hold each other. and from that moment forward…i don’t think we ever really stopped holding each other. even when we don’t talk for weeks and have thousands of miles between us…we can always speak as if not a day has passed.
tifani is one of those woman who needs to have a book written about her. she’s gone through every possible hardship. she’s dealt with broken homes, no homes at all, orientation issues, abuse in every form, she’s been broken down physically and emotionally in her young lifetime more often and with more force then anybody i have ever met. you name it, she’s gone through it… guaranteed.
but one thing she has never struggled with, is identity.
she’s somehow remained the same tifani i met all of those years ago. she loves fiercely, with a passion that few people have. she’s articulate and hot headed all in the same. she’s witty, compassionate, and stronger then any of my female friends- both physically and mentally. she reads people like a psychic and she plans like the world is going to end tomorrow. she’s the most unique person i know… and she has made it her duty to never quit, to sculpt her life to the best of her ability until she reaches the point of perfection that she deserves.
tifani, my older sister, my stage partner in this life full of actors, has blessed the world with a beautiful, intelligent baby girl. and she now fights and loves and pushes obstacles out of her path not only for her, but for this wondrous creation in child form. she lives for leilani. she eats, breathes, smells, tastes, RADIATEs motherhood. she parents with the same passion that she used to hug me on stage that day years ago.
and right now… she’s faced with more struggle. more obstacles. more processes. she tells me of them through this fuckdamn screen miles and miles away and i am incapable of doing a damn thing- i am helpless. all i can do is provide her words of comfort and have faith that she gets through this milestone like she has gotten through the rest. i know how badly she wants to quit sometimes- i know how she feels lost without her mother’s guidance here any longer… but i also know the soldier she is, and has always been.
tifani- you’ve taught me how to be grateful. you’ve taught me how to be mature, how to not take anybody’s shit regardless of who they are, how to communicate, how to keep my chin up. our friendship reminds me that there is more to life then the bubble that these little college girls live in. you’ve shown me that no matter how strong the blow is, i can take it. i can take it because your story- your stories- inspire me to be the best i can be. and although sometimes you may feel unappreciated and alone, just know that i wouldn’t be who i am had i not grown up with you.
i love you lifeline. i really do.

March 18, 2012   3 notes


i’m holding on to the remnants of our three day universe
i’m holding on to the scratchy couch where we spent countless nights wrapped up in one another speaking never ending sentences under blue lighting, to your dresser with my black frames and perfume placed so beautifully next to your cologne, to the sink where i would wrap my arms around you as your hands circled dinner plates, to the shower’s warm embrace and isolated walls, to the porch where i heard you speak and discovered perfection, to long tangled sunday’s and terrible monday’s, to unheard closeness and surreal communication
to wisdom teeth removal ramblings & nothing to do is everything with you
heart pounding promises
confidence that reached another atmosphere

i’m holding on to no questions asked
i’m holding on to no matter what

February 16, 2012   3 notes

today’s notes in the margin

my love poems have always been clumsy, thrown together, messy and unfit. they never resemble the soft tones that reside in sweet rhythm and blues, they don’t flow like baby blue spring water the way i desperately wish they would.
but i need to keep trying, i need to accomplish this, i need to create a love poem that people feel in the heart of their minds, and the minds of their heart.
i need to write something that forces people to shiver… in the same way i shiver when his fingertips trace maze-like lines on the palm of my hand during the steady start of daylight, when the world is paused in the middle of it’s quietest moment and comprehension of surroundings is insignificant because the only things i could possibly care about in that moment-
are his fingertips.  

February 15, 2012   7 notes

and each time you say it won’t happen again

man has no power over me unless it is physical strength and the alphaness of you being able to pin me down with your sin ridden fingers makes me cringe at night
my eyelids are pulled open during twilight or rather during the death of day and im remembering the smell of dirt particles winding me and although it’s a blur i can feel the details exploding in the exact middle part of my brain and spreading like sickness like illness like disease throughout the lonely parts of my body that have craved touch but not that touch not that one please not that one not that skin it is not skin it is weapon it is filth it is disgust it is all over every crevice of me weakening me reminding me that the almighty is not so mighty reminding me that independence only goes as far as mental reminding me that cruel is a word that will always exist reminding me that i am alone that i am tainted that i have fallen and that i will fall periodically forever until the death of my physical not my mental because she dies all of the time continuously in bits and pieces as she is reminded of the pushes and grips and force the force she does not posses the strength she has always wanted the mountain she can not climb the place she had never wanted to go to the cave the crawl the cry all of it bunches together until it is a solid component of memory rock hard bruising me with it’s solidity keeping me up during the death of day blurred but presently crisp like a newfound sickness illness disease that is spread over me and in me i wanted one but not that touch not that one please not one please please please not that one ever again and again and again every single long day again and again.